If You Came For The Horses, It’s A Great Time To Be Alive’
Jun 19, 2015 19:52:14 GMT -5
Post by cait on Jun 19, 2015 19:52:14 GMT -5
like this - because - it IS about the horses - do remember affirmed - but like ev - not man o war!
If You Came For The Horses, It’s A Great Time To Be Alive’
by Natalie Voss
PR
I believe there are two things that bring people through the gates of a racetrack for the first time: horses, or people. If you came for the horses, it’s a great time to be alive.
At American Pharoah’s Churchill Downs parade last Saturday, I was honored to meet the colt’s self-proclaimed “biggest fan.” Shaun Basch of Muskegon, Mich., was running on three hours’ sleep when I met her by the paddock, but her eyes were bright and animated, and she had a nervous energy buzzing around her as the hour of her hero’s appearance drew near.
I know that energy well—admiration so tremendous it makes your fingers shake. There are still horses who make me feel that way, though they are fewer and farther between than they used to be. I too, first came through racetrack gates thinking only of the horses. I grew up on a self-engineered diet of The Black Stallion and King of the Wind. I was eager for a hero, and could think of nothing more heroic than a Thoroughbred in full flight, joyfully vanquishing naysayers on the way to the wire. I dreamed of a Triple Crown.
Unluckily for me and other race fans in my generation, we came of age in the sport’s longest dry spell. I’m not old enough to remember Affirmed and Alydar’s iconic rivalry, much less Secretariat’s jaw-dropping 31-length Belmont victory, but I do remember ten of the horses since 1978 who came two-thirds of the way to accomplishing the feat. I embraced them as heroes anyway, covering my notebooks with their photos and boring friends with retellings of their victories when the colts were inevitably whisked away to the breeding shed almost immediately after.
I believe there are two things that bring people through the gates of a racetrack for the first time: horses, or people. If you came for the horses, it’s a great time to be alive.
At American Pharoah’s Churchill Downs parade last Saturday, I was honored to meet the colt’s self-proclaimed “biggest fan.” Shaun Basch of Muskegon, Mich., was running on three hours’ sleep when I met her by the paddock, but her eyes were bright and animated, and she had a nervous energy buzzing around her as the hour of her hero’s appearance drew near.
I know that energy well—admiration so tremendous it makes your fingers shake. There are still horses who make me feel that way, though they are fewer and farther between than they used to be. I too, first came through racetrack gates thinking only of the horses. I grew up on a self-engineered diet of The Black Stallion and King of the Wind. I was eager for a hero, and could think of nothing more heroic than a Thoroughbred in full flight, joyfully vanquishing naysayers on the way to the wire. I dreamed of a Triple Crown.
Unluckily for me and other race fans in my generation, we came of age in the sport’s longest dry spell. I’m not old enough to remember Affirmed and Alydar’s iconic rivalry, much less Secretariat’s jaw-dropping 31-length Belmont victory, but I do remember ten of the horses since 1978 who came two-thirds of the way to accomplishing the feat. I embraced them as heroes anyway, covering my notebooks with their photos and boring friends with retellings of their victories when the colts were inevitably whisked away to the breeding shed almost immediately after.
If You Came For The Horses, It’s A Great Time To Be Alive’
by Natalie Voss
PR
I believe there are two things that bring people through the gates of a racetrack for the first time: horses, or people. If you came for the horses, it’s a great time to be alive.
At American Pharoah’s Churchill Downs parade last Saturday, I was honored to meet the colt’s self-proclaimed “biggest fan.” Shaun Basch of Muskegon, Mich., was running on three hours’ sleep when I met her by the paddock, but her eyes were bright and animated, and she had a nervous energy buzzing around her as the hour of her hero’s appearance drew near.
I know that energy well—admiration so tremendous it makes your fingers shake. There are still horses who make me feel that way, though they are fewer and farther between than they used to be. I too, first came through racetrack gates thinking only of the horses. I grew up on a self-engineered diet of The Black Stallion and King of the Wind. I was eager for a hero, and could think of nothing more heroic than a Thoroughbred in full flight, joyfully vanquishing naysayers on the way to the wire. I dreamed of a Triple Crown.
Unluckily for me and other race fans in my generation, we came of age in the sport’s longest dry spell. I’m not old enough to remember Affirmed and Alydar’s iconic rivalry, much less Secretariat’s jaw-dropping 31-length Belmont victory, but I do remember ten of the horses since 1978 who came two-thirds of the way to accomplishing the feat. I embraced them as heroes anyway, covering my notebooks with their photos and boring friends with retellings of their victories when the colts were inevitably whisked away to the breeding shed almost immediately after.
I believe there are two things that bring people through the gates of a racetrack for the first time: horses, or people. If you came for the horses, it’s a great time to be alive.
At American Pharoah’s Churchill Downs parade last Saturday, I was honored to meet the colt’s self-proclaimed “biggest fan.” Shaun Basch of Muskegon, Mich., was running on three hours’ sleep when I met her by the paddock, but her eyes were bright and animated, and she had a nervous energy buzzing around her as the hour of her hero’s appearance drew near.
I know that energy well—admiration so tremendous it makes your fingers shake. There are still horses who make me feel that way, though they are fewer and farther between than they used to be. I too, first came through racetrack gates thinking only of the horses. I grew up on a self-engineered diet of The Black Stallion and King of the Wind. I was eager for a hero, and could think of nothing more heroic than a Thoroughbred in full flight, joyfully vanquishing naysayers on the way to the wire. I dreamed of a Triple Crown.
Unluckily for me and other race fans in my generation, we came of age in the sport’s longest dry spell. I’m not old enough to remember Affirmed and Alydar’s iconic rivalry, much less Secretariat’s jaw-dropping 31-length Belmont victory, but I do remember ten of the horses since 1978 who came two-thirds of the way to accomplishing the feat. I embraced them as heroes anyway, covering my notebooks with their photos and boring friends with retellings of their victories when the colts were inevitably whisked away to the breeding shed almost immediately after.
